


Quite the Mouthful

by hollybennett123



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blow Jobs, Crepes, French Revolution, M/M, Prison Sex, Unresolved Sexual Tension, fantasising, light-hearted nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 13:30:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19888624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollybennett123/pseuds/hollybennett123
Summary: I suppose I should say thank you, Aziraphale had said, and he has a few ideas in mind now for how that could have played out had they not been all sensible about things.





	Quite the Mouthful

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [С набитым ртом](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20867576) by [Sangrill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sangrill/pseuds/Sangrill)



> Some more high-quality fanfiction from yours truly, this time featuring more crêpes than ever before

It’s little more than an hour after the event, yet already Aziraphale finds himself sorely missing the beloved outfit he was wearing when he was most rudely arrested on the streets of Paris. Manhandled by men with no right to put their filthy hands on his expensive, one-of-a-kind coat. Shackled within the Bastille for the mere crimes of wearing some quite lovely English tailoring and having a bit of a hankering for some crêpes, of all the silly things to be locked up over.

This dreadfully drab attire he had to miracle himself into at Crowley’s insistence just doesn’t have the same feel to it at _all_. No ruffled lace, exquisite in its design. No blush-pink tights and artfully crafted buttons. The less said about the shoes he’s currently wearing the better, really. Absolutely tragic.

They’d had a nice bit of back and forth going before Crowley got all boring about it and started fretting about everything from what his side might think to the aforementioned clothing Aziraphale was wearing, which apparently has everybody kicking up quite the unnecessary fuss. It’s not as if Aziraphale had _planned_ on all of this happening. Not in any significant detail, anyway. Yes, it was always a _possibility_ he’d be arrested, and yes he probably could have simply miracled his way out of the whole sorry mess, but eating crêpes alone just isn’t as fun. Crowley can do as he pleases, and if coming to Aziraphale’s rescue pleases him then who is Aziraphale to stop him?

 _I suppose I should say thank you,_ Aziraphale had said, and he has a few ideas in mind now for how that could have played out had they not been all sensible about things. He’s not entirely sure what Crowley’s wearing beneath his clothes of the making-an-effort variety, but he does have an inkling. Not that he was _looking_ of course, but one can’t help but let their gaze linger in certain places when giving someone a haughty once-over.

He’s willing to have a taste of whatever Crowley’s offering, but he’s almost certain Crowley has a cock under those deliciously tight-fitting trousers. He’s _very_ certain that getting down on his knees and choking on it would be a marvellous way to demonstrate the depth and intensity of his gratitude. For the _rescue_. The rescue performed by Crowley, who didn’t have to save him but did so anyway, all while looking terribly dashing. There’s not much Aziraphale is willing to ruin his tights for, and fewer things still for which he’s willing to scuff dirt into his lovely white silk shoes, but getting on his knees for Crowley would be exceptional circumstances under which both of those things would be acceptable.

Aziraphale once heard someone say that when it comes to sex, what a person may lack in experience they can make up for in enthusiasm. Since Aziraphale has both in abundance _—_ several millennia of exemplary cocksucking experience and, when it comes to Crowley, a frankly inestimable quantity of enthusiasm _—_ he’s most assured he could show Crowley the time of his life. They couldn’t, of course _—_ honestly, what a notion, an angel and a demon, opposite sides and all that _—_ but if he did? It’d be _spectacular_.

He’d have gone to his knees right there in his prison cell, Crowley still sprawled most alluringly in one corner and looking simply divine, in a manner of speaking, in the soft lighting. Tell Crowley in indulgent, praising tones how _brilliant_ he is and how much he wants to _thank_ him for coming to his rescue as his fingers work their way up Crowley’s thigh and begin to unfasten his trousers. He’d employ the use of his teeth to help get that irksome top button open just to really get Crowley worked up and wanting.

It’d all be so unexpected on Crowley’s part, the willing and delighted recipient, that he wouldn’t have the time to get fully hard before Aziraphale took him into his mouth. Aziraphale would get to feel him thicken and swell with his efforts, Crowley’s fingers tangled in his carefully coiffed hair. Crowley probably assumes Aziraphale likes to keep things neat and tidy, delicate and in no way _sloppy_ in the proceedings. Aziraphale is more than happy to prove him wrong in that regard. He wants to savour the taste of him as Crowley slides over his tongue; needs to hear his stifled moans as Aziraphale shows him just how well he can take a cock into the back of his throat, eager for his hard use.

Aziraphale really is _very_ grateful.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley murmurs softly.

Oh, his voice is a _dream_. The way he says Aziraphale’s name is pure poetry. Aziraphale wonders what he’d sound like muttering filth alongside his ear, panting with the exertion of giving Aziraphale a good, thorough seeing to. The bars of his cell would offer a delightfully sturdy surface against which one could receive a good fucking from behind; easy to get a nice, firm grip on, for one thing. They wouldn’t have to bother undressing, of course, clothing hastily rucked up and tugged aside as necessary just enough for Crowley to get at him. If Aziraphale has been good enough to get Crowley’s cock nice and slick for him, spit-wet and leaking, then surely he can ask for, nay, _deserves_ _—_

“ _Aziraphale_ ,” Crowley says, firmly enough that Aziraphale snaps out of his haze. 

“Sorry, what was that?” Aziraphale asks him, blinking back into focus.

“Are you alright?” Crowley asks, mildly concerned, nodding to Aziraphale’s empty fork where it hovers over his plate of half-eaten, honey-drizzled crêpes. Goodness, Aziraphale thinks, flushing hot. He’d been quite away with the fairies, lost in his thoughts.

“Oh. Oh, yes! Tip-top. The food here is just marvellous, don’t you think? I’m absolutely fine, my dear fellow. You? A bit hot in here, isn’t it?”

Offering Crowley a smile that he hopes conveys absolute serenity and not even the slightest hint of repressed lustful urges, he hurriedly shoves a rather large forkful of crêpe into his mouth and promptly regrets it. Dabs genteelly at his lips with a napkin in a belated attempt to cover his gaucherie.

All told, it’s not quite the full-mouth feeling Aziraphale was craving, but he’ll take what he can get in these trying times.


End file.
